Deep in August, autumn
feels so far away - the moon's still
golden, will be silvered by September
when gusts slide over earth and
tuck away the sun
I plan to catch in nets a cloak of leaves
and cocoon myself, lose myself,
in a fever of dreams.
I will spend an hour every morning
in a sleep-induced Xanadu:
There a curtained cave, satin
purple,
hides us warm and soft and still.
It’s the seat of malevolent beauty;
of an enchanted forest of dreams,
the clearings here and there
host scenes of futures ill-conceived
enthralled – I’m high and better
In one – a Prince of Prague,
a poet with keys to the city.
Music twirls with leaves, loops
into my ear – charming me
into submission, I lose
morning, day and night
as a lyricist who’s stitched together
the pieces of content. Guilt wells up
into my neck, spills into my head,
So that insect-like,
I spring from bed,
puny and in withdrawal.
